


Bitter Pill

by SuedeScripture



Series: Beyond the Sea Universe [8]
Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-09
Updated: 2009-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place directly after Threadbare Gypsy Soul - Chapter 23</p>
    </blockquote>





	Bitter Pill

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after Threadbare Gypsy Soul - Chapter 23

_Soho, London_

Haven ground out Boxing Day in its usual style, the crowds as typical as an ordinary Friday or Saturday night, perhaps a bit rowdier than normal. The DJ threw out a steady stream of heavy rhythms felt in the gut, and the alcohol flowed as readily as ever.

“Can I get a whiskey? And a gin and tonic,” Boyd ordered, yelling across the bar to be heard.

“Comes to nine pounds.”

“Buying me a drink, then?” said the pretty face on the left. “Whatever will my brother think?”

“He’ll think I’m charming and generous, which we both know is shite,” Boyd grinned, paying like a man who wasn’t used to the currency, angling each coin into the neon to see what it was. “Nine, y’said?” he asked.

“Right.”

Billy double-checked his coins before pushing them across, smiling as the glasses were handed over, “Cheers.”

Billy fucking Boyd. The one who wanted to be Sinatra. Had half the people on the ship convinced he was. He looked different now, his hair grown out enough to curl at the ends, jaw darkened with stubble, no ubiquitous tuxedo but still flaunting his silly old-fashioned act in a fucking waistcoat. The voice gave him away, even here in London where Scots were a dime a dozen. Or maybe his ear had just trained itself to pick a Glaswegian out of a crowd. Maybe this particular one had dug into his brain further than he’d realized. Like a parasite he couldn’t get rid of.

Not that Orlando hadn’t tried.

Billy hadn’t recognized him. No, like most barmen, including the one Billy’d been tight with, patrons rarely ever looked him in the face; they spoke to the drink. And why would he have? Orlando himself had changed perhaps as much in the last year, traded the long, tiresome ponytail for an easy crop, the crisp nautical uniform for low slung jeans and the tight black t-shirt with the club’s silver logo silk-screened on the front, the camera bag for a menagerie of bottles and taps to choose from.

They’d all got off that bloody ship at the same time, taken the same bus into the city and checked in and out at the Sydney offices without a word. Then he’d watched the little twat get back on the bus, looking for all the world like someone had thrown his puppy in front of it. Same look as he’d had since his little fling had left him on the dock without a backward look.

Now, less than a year later, Bill looked none the worse for wear, drinking his whiskey and chatting animatedly with another pretty face right off of GQ. Strangely familiar, this one, though Orlando was certain he’d never seen him before. Straight as a post, brushing off every male advance – and there were many – with a dazzling grin and an apology, all the while happy to leer at any number of lesbians snogging in the vicinity. Orlando supposed the loss of the barman who’d run off with the masseuse had to be replaced, another special straight friend who adored being the lounge singer’s shadow. He wondered if Billy had found another stage on which he could be worshiped, another little twink that needed to be coddled as well. Wondered if he’d filled his bed with another moping princess that needed rescuing so he could feel better about his own pathetic faults.

He pulled another dozen drinks, anger flaring in his gut. He’d come back to London to put all this behind him, to shove the whole situation in the past along with other things that needed to be forgotten. He’d done more or less well for himself, selling some photographs to newspapers and serials, working nights here at the club, had a flat to himself. He’d put the boat, the people, and this little daytime soap opera behind him.

Or so he’d thought. He hadn’t expected to glance back over to see someone else with Boyd and GQ, someone undeniably familiar. His arms draped over Billy’s shoulders and reaching to steal a swallow of Billy’s drink, only to kiss the fire of it back into Billy’s upturned, smiling mouth. Shirt unbuttoned to nothing down the front, skin shining with sweat and the glitter that periodically shot from confetti machines in the club’s ceiling, eyes dark and swimming with kohl. So, the starcrossed lovers couldn’t stay apart after all, he thought with a smirk.

Dominic, Orlando remembered. He still had that New York address buried somewhere on his laptop, just one of hundreds of names and addresses he’d saved for various reasons from ship manifests to send holiday photos. What he meant to do with it, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d meant to go back and get another candid snapshot. Maybe he just kept it because it was all he could have, a piece of someone he’d not gotten a tangible object from.

GQ – so obviously Dominic’s brother to see them now side by side – sipped his drink and bobbed his head to the music, chatting with a couple of girls nearby. Bill turned on his stool to get Dom between his knees and kiss him more thoroughly, Billy Boyd who pandered and charmed old women right in front of their husbands, openly tongue kissing the once lost little boy blue who seemed to have fallen onto that stupid ship by accident.

Another several drinks poured and they were gone, having left GQ to fend for himself. Orlando shouted his break to Joe and plunged out into the fray.

Music was release. It didn’t matter what it was, really, as long as it had a beat to follow, to align with. He could feel it through the floor, reverberating off the walls. It moved his feet, his hips, it pulsed through the bodies around him like a heartbeat. He raised his arms, pushed his palms against the prickle of his short-cropped hair, felt the throb of heat, and let it swallow him.

A pair of hands lit on his hips and he opened his eyes, glancing back over his shoulder to see who would invite themselves into his space, and found an unknown but unthreatening face. Orlando skirted around, pulled the guy’s arse into the cradle of his own hips, just to send a message of who was calling the shots here. It was what he saw past the guy’s shoulder that gave him pause.

Dominic held Billy in the same position nearby on the dance floor, the coloured lights glinting of the sheen of sweat and glitter on his skin. His hands guided Billy’s hips counterpoint with his own to the beat, thumbs dipping below the waist of his jeans. His round nose pressed against Billy’s skin, his lips and teeth working on Billy’s earlobe and the tendon below. Billy’s hands reached back, gripping Dom’s jeans, keeping him tight and close, turning his head to capture Dom’s mouth in a biting kiss. Dom’s big hand slid down from a hip, down until his long square tipped fingers gripped Billy fully through his jeans, grinned his pleasure against a cheek that the move had Billy bucking in his hand and biting his lip.

Orlando turned away, left the twink he’d been grinding against and darted away through the melee closer to the DJ booth, closer to the pounding speaker, away from the vision he’d seen enough of on that ship. His ears rang with the noise and fury as he danced, glaring at every fucker who tried to dance with him. We can’t all have what we want.

He danced until he tired, thirsty and needing a slash. His break would be long over, but at this point he didn’t give a fuck. He could do this job at any number of clubs in this city if he lost this one. He strode to the opposite bar from his own and knocked back a shot of vodka, follow by several gulps of water before wading down the stairs and the crowded hall to the loo.

Piss hitting porcelain, a continuous sound in a club toilet. Orlando preferred the privacy of stalls to urinals here, tired of being felt up and hit on while holding a stream, not least as a fucking employee. The copious, moist sounds of people making out, another regular part of the atmosphere, along with whispers, gasps, moans, obscene slurps and smacks. He shook off and tucked himself in, intent to go outside in the cold air for a little burning clarity. It was the hiss through teeth and Clyde-tinged burr closing “Dominic” off with a hard gasp from the next stall over that stopped his hand on the lock.

Moist enthusiastic kissing noises threaded the air, the rasp of a zipper, heavy panting and a whimper bouncing off the tile even as they tried to be quiet, their voices only breath.

“Wanna fuck you so bad, Bills.”

“Jesus, yeah.” Heavy breaths, tongues clicking and meeting, the rasp of denim rubbing denim, a grunt. “Do you have…?”

“Matt comes through at last,” a breathed giggle, the crinkle of plastic, “At least it’s lubed. Turn around.”

It was an oasis of audio carried out beneath a continuous replay of running water and pissing, the muffled bass beat and voices, laughter and footsteps. The sound of spit hitting skin, once, twice, the rustling and shifting of cloth, the dry brush of skin together.

“Don’t need much, Dommeh, just – _Oh_."

Orlando tilted his head up and back against the partition, seeing one pair of hands – small, neat, calloused fingers, nails bitten – gripping the top of the stall. A third hand joined them, fingers longer and square, lacing over the others. He was keenly aware of the moment of utter stillness and held breath, then the sudden high-pitched moan that followed, quickly hushed and replaced with stilted whimpers and muffled grunts and the fast paced slaps of damp skin hitting skin, thighs against arse, the sound of Billy Boyd being nailed hard and fast, they way Orlando had once done.

He slid one hand around to squeeze himself through his jeans, feeling the rhythm of their fucking right through the partition he leaned against like he could feel the music outside. It would be easy revenge to simply go out and get the bouncer in here and have them thrown out for fucking in the loos. He had watched them connect on that ship all those months ago as though magnetic, tuned only to each other’s frequency. He’d watched them break apart and took pleasure in the pain. Now here they were again, almost a year later, as he listened to their coupling from just inches away, imagining bitterly what a pretty picture it would make.

His hand left his crotch, curled in a fist beside his own thigh, unwilling to continue down that line. And when the sudden explosion of shouts and breath shuddered the partition nearly off its frame, he felt the throb of want and rage and jealousy while they climaxed. He listened to their breathing slow, to soft laughs, and the sound of toilet paper being pulled from the roll and clothes rearranged, the sound of kissing, now languid, unrushed, to whispered words of devotion meant for no other ears. He wouldn’t get off at their expense, would not grip himself and pretend to be in one or the other’s place. It would mean Boyd had won.

Maybe he already had.

He jerked open the lock and fled from the room, skirting people through the hall and to the main doors, finally emerging out into the shocking, welcome freeze of the street.

Hanging back in the shadows of the buildings’ overhang amongst other loiterers, he lit up a clove cigarette, the singular thing he’d picked up from the clingy little steward he used to fuck, the one who clung to Billy like a limpet.

And still he couldn’t escape.

GQ came out, exchanging mobile numbers with a curvy woman, a club regular with whom Orlando had once gone home, a girl who played both sides like he did. He’d taken photos of her nude, vast landscapes of skin, the swells of hips and breast became hills, dips in between became valleys, curls of her hair golden streams running between. She’d had been a friendly and happily casual lay, wanting nothing more than he’d been willing to give, a little company, a shared joint and clean sheets with no awkward morning. Orlando wondered if Dom’s handsome brother looked for the same. And he was handsome, everything that was smeared to the side on Dominic perfectly arranged in this package, swaggering up the street looking up and down for a cab. Pity he didn’t swing Orlando’s way.

But he remembered well Dom’s last words to him, that little anecdote about walls and windows, and sucked hard on the sweet clove. He fumed that the little, crooked, lost and broken beautiful man had seen right through all of his carefully constructed barriers. And he hated that Billy had captured what he could only catch through a lens.

“Put this on, you daftie,” Billy said as they tumbled out the doors, trying to coax Dom into his jacket. “It is winter, you know, your mum will have my arse if you catch cold.”

“Don’t want it. I’m so hot right now,” Dom answered, leaning back against the lamppost that illuminated them, his shirt still hanging open to the icy air.

“Mmm. You are that.” Billy crowded up against him, hooking one arm round Dom’s slender waist and the other cupping the back of his head, threading in the tousle of hair, just as brazen as he’d been on the ship, fraternizing with a patron, something that should have had him sacked. He touched Dom’s face, fingers stroking the crinkles beside his black lined eyes, like he’d done on the ship as Orlando watched from afar.

Dom’s big square hands dropped to Billy’s rear, his grin smug and possessive. Something bright shone poking out the top of Billy’s right denim pocket, above Dom’s fingers as they touched their foreheads together, not kissing, but close and intimate. Content. Dom shivered now, the bite of English winter finally permeating the envelope of heat clinging to him, his arms rising up to circle round Billy’s slim waist, comfort and belonging in every gesture.

Somewhere, in a shoebox in his tiny flat, Orlando had a snapshot of these two, a mere shadow on the stern of that boat in the night, gravitating toward each other like they’d fallen into orbit, physically incapable of pulling apart. Not unlike the image before him now. There was the time when Orlando had tried to knock one loose, tried to alter the timeline and the universe. It had been stupid and he’d been drunk, but he got the idea he wouldn’t have managed it sober. Even when they broke apart, the gravity was there, lingering.

A cab pulled passed the club, flagged down by GQ. Orlando was glad. It would carry them and their perfect happiness away, hopefully forever. He could go home and look up that old file with all the names and addresses, and delete that one in Queens. He wouldn’t have done it anyway, wouldn’t have gone knocking on doorsteps, looking like a stalker, and a fool. He tried not to wonder if Dom would have let him in, would have coaxed out secrets Orlando had told to no one else. This man who could see so much.

As Billy swung the jacket around Dom’s shoulders, the bright thing worked the rest of way out of his pocket, freed by the lift and stretch of the movement to plop to the wet sidewalk as they strode over to the cab. Could be a receipt. Or directions. A printed plane ticket. Something he could hold onto of Billy, a trinket to hoard. He remembered trying that once, trying to get that little jade piece Billy used to wear, the one that now hung between Dominic’s collarbones, and bile rose in his throat.

“Mate,” he strode forward, plucking the paper from the puddle, pinched between two fingers. “Oi, you dropped something.”

Billy turned as he held it out and degenerated. His expression melted to complete fear as his eyes fixated to the note, a terror Orlando had never seen or expected to see from this man. A flicker of the old fury rampaged through as he crossed the space between them in three paces and snatched the note viciously from Orlando’s outstretched hand, enough to make him retreat a step or two, longing for the anonymity of the darkness, though Billy only had eyes for the paper.

Dominic was at his side in a second, his own eyes glancing only briefly to Orlando and then the note. He gently wrested it from Billy, as if calming a frightened bird to free it from a snare, and as they stood there, painstakingly unfolded each damp layer.

“Oi, your chariot awaits. You’ve got trains to catch and people to see, as I recall. Get your arses in here.” GQ called after them.

Orlando backed off into the shadow as he observed the scene. The paper was only wet on the outsides and the inner layers came free of each other more crisply, until the paper was opened, whole, but for a few soggy tears along the seams. Billy gave a sharp exhale, his breath hanging and brows pinching together in relief, closing his eyes and gripping Dom’s wrist.

“Just fine. See?” Dom smiled, reaching out to loop his hand around Billy’s neck to pull him close enough to press his nose to Billy’s temple. “How’s that for fate, eh?”

Billy snorted, taking the paper back and folding it up with reverence, and this time he tucked it into inner pocket of the waistcoat, safe near his heart as they headed back for the cab.

“Thanks, mate!” Dom called out from the open cab door, “We owe you one.”

“No,” Orlando returned quietly, mostly to himself, as Dom climbed in after Billy. That’s what he got for random acts of kindness, never to know what such a hallowed object might be and represent. “You don’t.”

The door shut with finality, Dom’s bright eyes found him again through the window, holding for another second or two as the cab began to pull by. Long enough for the click of recognition, like the whirr of the next frame of film cycling into place.


End file.
